


Home Improvements

by mcicioni



Category: The Magnificent Seven (1960)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23696098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: Sothat's your idea of how to spend your day off.
Relationships: Chris Adams/Vin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Home Improvements

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sindarina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sindarina/gifts).



> 1\. Love and gratitude to Sindarina, especially for letting me share one of her many good ideas.
> 
> 2\. Thanks also, as usual, to darcyone for her help with language.
> 
> 3\. _Hem_ = Swedish for _home_.

I’ve been riding shotgun on the stage all day and my back is telling me that it’s high time to rest on a seat that does not bounce around. I step into the kitchen, looking forward to a drink and a half hour of just sitting and doing nothing.

And freeze.

There are old newspapers all over the floor. The three chairs and the hutch are clean and dazzlingly white. You have filled in the hole in the table top and are giving the last touches of shiny white to one of the legs.

So _that_ ’s your idea of how to spend your day off.

“Don’t touch anything,” you say sharply, and I blink, and for a moment I see my mother and sister in the shabby kitchen of our Nebraska homestead, doing exactly what you’re doing now. Except that they were turning everything sky-blue.

“Don’t touch.” “Shoo, shoo.” “No men allowed.” “Keep out.” Two women together, trying to make things more cheerful, laughing at me and with me. A happy moment while my father was away – where, we didn’t know or care.

It’s as if someone had just punched me in the guts. _Hem._

I go outside to the trough, pump some water onto my face and neck, dry myself with my bandana. I turn back towards the house, and you are on the porch, admiring your handiwork at a distance, cigar in one hand, paintbrush in the other.

“Not bad,” I say, meaning it, and I hear women giggling somewhere inside my head.

I lean backwards, loosening my back muscles, letting the wave of memories wash over me. Then I look at you and think something too damn sappy for words. No problem, I’ll think of _other_ words; jokes are easy, always a good solution.

“Pretty good housekeepin,” I say, face as serious as I can make it. “So good, that I’m goin to make you a proposal.”

You nod, blowing some smoke in my direction. Probably thinking about the walls that could do with a coat of paint as well.

“I’ll make an honest man outa you,” I say, and throw my head back and laugh at the expression on your face, and for a moment I forget how fast you can move. I don’t jump back quickly enough, and now my nose and left cheek are all white and shiny, just like the furniture.

You look me over and walk back into the kitchen. Sometimes you don’t move all that quickly either – I could almost see the smile opening up your face before you turned around.

I wander off in search of a rag, faint echoes of warm laughter still drifting through my head.


End file.
